Category: writing

This was my prayer as I walked down the shadowed hall after a long day of work, a mountain of things to do gradually falling off my shoulders with every step toward the keyboard.

Be my words.

It is my prayer every time I write. And today I think again and again on the question “WHY do I write?“. Why do I come here, week after week, to tell a story…or to try to remind us both of God’s goodness and grace?

It’s part selfishness, part love.

The selfish aspect is that it comforts me to leave a legacy of some kind. At this web address will always be found a piece of me. In the chaos of everyday life, when the bell or the time clock or the agenda of the day drags us away from discussions of the heart and steals from us the breath of what really matters, I like knowing that I can come here so the person who needs it can read something that may make them smile…or think…or remember.

But the love part, the greater part, is having the space and place to freely speak of Jesus and how He loves you and me. The idea that maybe–just maybe–someone may see the positive side of a dreary situation and make the decision to see the light instead of being focused on the darkness: By sharing the victories in my life which have followed the battles I’ve encountered. Or simply noticing the beauty of the world around us amidst the clamoring debates and arguments and nastiness of the world.

I fear I’m not doing it right. I fear that I come here week after week trying in vain to be the encourager I set out to be and fail. My heart is so full of hope for others to find the salvation that only Jesus has given. The gift of eternal life. Or to help someone reconsider their sadness. And here I am telling again instead of showing…at least in this post. When really, it’s apparently through stories in which people connect with.

This leads me to I worry that I am not a storyteller. I worry about sharing too much…too little. I resist the advice to weave my words in a way that captures attention, and so instead I write plainly from my heart. In doing so, I risk lack of acclaim, lack of “sharing”, lack of “likes”. But the very core of my soul knows that none of that matters. The number of “hits” has nothing to do with resting in the love of God who already loves me so…and who loves you so, as well. He longs only for us to acknowledge Him and know Him and spend time with Him….to share the story of Christ to all.

Because of this, because of my prayer that God write with me, I often forego the “rules” of the writer. I ignore the fact that the most “hits” my blog has ever had was about my dog. I could write post after post about my dog in order to gain more readers, but I it feels strange to do so. At least, for now. I feel like in doing so it will be me wanting to conform to the writer’s world in order to earn a buck. Or recognition…or popularity.

Isn’t it so hard to not compare ourselves with others and just realize that we, too, are amazing? Let’s not put numbers on ourselves….instead, let’s leave the numbers to God, whose thoughts of each of us are so many that were we to count them they would be “more in number than the sand” (Psalm 139:17-18). Isn’t that where the true substance lies?

All I want to do is be here, and share words on a page inspired by the God who created us, who meets us here—you and me–in order to nudge us to think and reflect on life, love, and laughter. My God doesn’t want fancy words or perfection…He just wants me, as I am. And so, I show up and see what happens. Thank you for joining me on my journey of figuring out how to encourage. I’m still learning as I go.

Just between us, I’m a rebel when it comes to time. Time and I try to get along, but the problem is that I secretly want to make my way through the day on my own terms, wherever my will takes me. Yet that atrocious clock rules my day. Forces me to stay on track. I don’t mean to sound rude, but honestly time just annoys me.

Time, that quiet thief. It takes away my days minute by minute before I even knew it happened. I want it to leave me alone. I want more of it.

Too often I think it is in control of me, suffocating me…but really, I long to reconcile with it. Be okay with it. Appreciate and esteem it. Yes, God gives us limited time, and it can be a nuisance, but the thing is…I’ve seen evidence of it being beautifully stretched, too. Time is a healer; a wisdom giver. A grower. A thriller of suspense, and a cousin of sweet anticipation.

My grandpa had his own business and worked twelve hour days, six days a week. All the years I knew him, he had a small wooden plaque which sat on the counter where he stood filling prescriptions day in and day out. As an adolescent, I used to read it slowly when customers weren’t around, sounding the words out like a foreign language because I couldn’t really comprehend why it meant enough to him to have it there. I knew it was supposed to be funny, but couldn’t figure out why. “Work really breaks up the day”, it read in poker-faced white capital letters. Amen to that, Papa. He liked his job, I like my job…but really, where does the time go?

In this season of my life, I am sour-faced with the obligatory things that steal my time because it means less time to read, or listen to music…less time with friends and, more recently, write. Less time to explore the world. Getting groceries? What a time killer! Who needs groceries when there is music to be heard? Books to write! Novels to read!

With writing and travel and reading, my happy feet will hit the floor running on weekends when the alarm clock has no chance of scaring me to death. Those are the days when time doesn’t annoy me at all, because I can lose track of it completely with no consequence. A large, steaming cup of coffee with a splash of milk–sometimes one sugar, sometimes none…sometimes agave nectar, just because I’m not convinced which is worse for me. Some days I feel sweet, some days I feel bitter. So my coffee additions depend on my mood. Really.

But now I’m off-topic. See what I mean? Time just gets away from us in so many ways.

So, if you see me grumpy and huffy…it’s usually about time or the lack thereof. Or the time taken away from me. Or the time I ignored, which eventually left me in a pickle. Just this morning I vented to a friend about how panicked I was that I had so much to do, and so little…time.

However.

My aim is to undespise time. My aspiration is to coexist with it…view it as a vessel of opportunity to be involved in community and all that I can give and receive because of it. I’m convinced that if I don’t learn to get along with it, it will just continue to poke and prod at my joy. It’s one more compromise in this world of rules and expectations…but that’s another story altogether.

I pray for time to show me how I can be an inspiration and a light to others, instead of complaining about it as I so often do. I dream of being unhurried so that I can be a world-class listener. I’m going to need to learn to respect time in order to tolerate the patient urgency I’m learning writers must endure. To honor it in order to gain the best quality of content in the classroom. To not take a single second of it for granted with those whom I love.

We’re given hours and minutes to dissect as best we can. So, methinks its probably best to befriend time…or not.

Do you journal? I wouldn’t describe myself as one who journals. In fact, when I think of journaling, my nose often crinkles up in distaste. It sounds like hard work. It sounds arthritic. My hands seem to literally ache whenever I even hear someone suggest starting a journal. “Who has time for that?”, I think, dismissing the thought immediately.

I prefer to type, as my mind flies through words like a peregrine falcon striking its prey. I wish my words came to me in spoken conversation as quickly as they flow from my fingertips to the keys. I’m real good at getting tongue-tied.

Well, I don’t know what kind of lies I’ve been telling myself, but I found this stack (see below) while rearranging my massive bookcase, weeding out the Ones Who Won’t Be Saved. I’ve been thinking about the whole journal thing since an old friend, Rachel Dodge, posed the question on Facebook awhile back. And it looks like I found my answer.

More than a dozen, there are…and that doesn’t include the journals of my childhood, my college years, nor the ones oh my gosh, how could I? I shredded to hide my deepest insecurities or most horrible feelings. I also (don’t tell anybody) love to write song lyrics in journals. My husband and I currently playfully argue over a song I wrote that I’m very serious about and he, well, isn’t. I can say this without my feelings being hurt because it is called “Ride the Bull”…I can be open-minded in seeing how it might not be viewed as life-changing with a title like that.

So…I guess I do journal. The proof is hard to deny. Who knew?

And now that I’ve found these, I’m dying to know what’s inside them. I sure can’t remember. Most are not all filled in. Most are at least halfway full. How could I overlook them…forget they existed? It must be some sort of selective memory mystery. To be fair to my ever-aging brain, it has to have been at least four years since I’ve written in a journal. I think.

Maybe this explains why my hands groan at the mere mention of a journal. The stack telleth all. Now I’m tempted to go out and get a new one. But…who has the time for that?